The security guard said nothing to Jamie Jenkins as she exited the Robinson’s May department store. Jamie looked back, threw a nostalgic smile at the cute guard, and continued toward the apartment. People had always ignored her, though, in the last year, she had become used to this–almost expected it. From the department store she headed toward the parking lot. Her husband, Mark, lived down the street, and today Jamie would be visiting him. She needed to visit him: Mark was not all right. Over the last year, since they had gone their separate ways, he had been depressed. And today Jamie was hopeful. Across the street she saw children who were dressed up, carrying bags of candy. Maybe she would see a smile on his face today; Mark loved children.
As Jamie crossed the parking lot, she caught her pale reflection in the windows of cars.
I need some sun,
she thought. An ironic smirk appeared across her face.
Good one, Jamie, good one.
Her auburn hair was a tangled mess, almost appearing as if someone had styled her hair into dread locks the year before, and now they were coming undone. She shook her head, dejected. She wanted to look good for Mark. He had been so lonely. Her hands reached up to straighten her hair. However, as she did this, she caught the rest of her reflection, and moved on quickly, passing through the parking lot, feet sliding over the asphalt. From the parking lot, she crossed the street, not bothering to push the small button that made the green, walking-man appear.
On Johnson Avenue, Jamie went down the street on which Mark lived. To her left and right she was flanked by apartments with names such as Park Glen and East Coast Racquet Club. They had lived at the East Side Racquet Club apartment complex, but there was no racquet club, only a fancy name which hid what was really inside: asbestos in the ceilings, water-stained paint, and perpetually running toilets. Even with the decrepit conditions, Jamie had still loved the place. She loved Southern California, but, more than that, she loved that Mark had taken it upon himself to make the small apartment livable and lovable. They even had some fun at the racquet club, having sex in every room of their one bedroom apartment–even the laundry room when she had, once, felt daring. A slight moan escaped Jamie’s lips. It had been a year since she had felt him–had felt anything at all.
A Pikachu darted past her, giggling with a sack of sweets, jogging her from her thoughts of Mark. She smiled nostalgically at the simplicity of the costume: a bag dyed yellow for the body and a piece of cardboard for the tail. She hurried on, slipping between the bars of the gate that surrounded her complex.
He should be home, by now
, Jamie thought. Recently, Mark had gotten a new a job. He was now working in receiving at Target.
He always returned from work at 5:00 P.M. His typical night went like this: when he returned he would make dinner, usually pasta from a can. When dinner was finished, he would sit on their leather couch, which they had saved money for, and flip through the channels, never stopping as he stared blankly at the screen. Often, he would drink something 80-proof, becoming drunk. This was one of the things that worried Jamie, causing her to visit him more often than she should. However, today, he would be doing something different. He had to be: It was Halloween, which meant children, which meant her good-natured Mark would be handing out sweets and confections. She longed to see a smile on his face. Maybe tonight.
Jamie rounded the bend and went to apartment 66-16. Another group of trick-or-treaters darted past her, bed sheets and pillowcases over their heads.
Ghosts
, she thought as she glanced at them and then at the door to Mark’s apartment. She paused, noticing that the patio light was off.
Maybe he’s not celebrating Halloween, but no. . .
There was a jack-o-lantern on his porch, smiling its hollow, toothless grin. She sensed that something was wrong. Maybe he was sick, or perhaps he was in trouble. Her last visit had been two days ago. She felt a wave of panic, then prompted herself to stop acting silly.
“Mark, honey, if you are watching television, I am going to kill you. It’s Halloween. Children are already out,” she said as she entered the room. The lights were off, though everything seemed normal: Sony 25 inch screen on the far wall, leather love seat for one, black stains on the carpet near the entryway.
“Mark, honey, are you all right?” Jamie asked fruitlessly. No response, but the bedroom light was on. She went down the hall, noticing that soft music was playing in the bedroom. “You know I don’t like Yanni,” she said. “Are you okay, Mark?”
The door into the bedroom was ajar, and for an instant Jamie felt afraid. Not for her, but for Mark. The word “suicide” flashed through her mind. Jamie poked her head into the room
“Mark, baby?” She paused, became paler, a more ghostly shade of white. Her pupils dilated. “Oh, Mark.”
Mark was on the bed, naked. Sweat ran down his back, and below him, Jamie could hear a female moaning.
“I think I love you,” Mark said to the woman. “I’ve been so sad.”
“Don’t be. It’s normal. Forget your wife.”
From the door, Jamie was silent. Her mouth was agape and her fists clenched, unclenched.
